


Wicked Dogs

by Liquori



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, M/M, Multi, sterek
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-26
Updated: 2013-07-10
Packaged: 2017-12-16 06:04:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/858696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liquori/pseuds/Liquori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Derek is an Alpha without a pack, moving to Beacon Hills in search of one, and Stiles is an anomaly of the werewolf community.</p>
<p>(( summary will improve when I get a better idea of where I want to go with this. ))</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Stiles held his drink high as he navigated through the crowd, his hips swaying lazily to the music. The bass shook the walls, and the dancing shook the floor, and Stiles could feel all of it vibrate through his bones. A pleasant hum that built up steadily within him, urging him to release that energy. He needed to release that energy.

A slightly buzzed smile lit up his face as he downed the rest of his drink and set the empty red solo cup down on the first available space he spotted. With now free hands, and an enjoyable buzz, Stiles scanned the faces of his fellow party-goers in search of a dance partner. He didn't need to look far, though, because a tap on his shoulder caused him to turn in the direction of the one needing his attention. “Hm?” he said in acknowledgement of the young woman who had caught his attention.

“Hey Stiles,” she said softly, her hand reaching out for his arm. “Wanna dance?”

His buzzed smile turned into a cheeky grin. “Could I ever say no to you, Erica?” They exchanged a knowing smile and Erica led him to the dance floor, blonde curls bouncing behind her with every step. He didn't know the song, he could barely hear anything over the chatter of drunk people and the kick of the bass. It didn't matter, though. He didn't need to hear the lyrics (if there were any) in order to dance.

When they reach a spot big enough to fit the two of them, a space between a couple who were making out and a group of giggling girls swaying their hips and pretending to be sexy for each other, Erica turned and wrapped her arms around his neck. Which was not something Stiles was expecting. He responded though, without missing a beat, by wrapping his arms around her waist. They were slow dancing, despite the excited beat of the tune, which meant Erica had something to say, and grinding like horny teenagers was not how she wanted to say it.

It took her a moment to decide what exactly she wanted to say, but eventually the words escaped her lips as, “I hear you got rejected by Lydia. Ouch.” Not what he was expecting, to be honest. He shrugged. It was true, he'd been rejected by Lydia Martin, his crush since third grade which at this point was about... nine years.

“Yeah, whatever. Not like it hasn't happened before.”

Erica frowned, obviously not very pleased with the lack of detail. “Well? What happened? Aren't you going to tell me how you went down on one knee and professed your undying love to her?” She pressed a hand to her chest and batted her eyes at him, pretending to swoon over the romance of the situation she had created in her mind. “Or maybe how she swooned and sighed at your charm, but in the end still left you dangling by a thread? Tell me she at least got your name right, this time.” At this point Erica seemed her most unimpressed.

“She did! She got my name right!” He interjected in Lydia's defense. “And it didn't happen like that, Erica. I just told it like it is.”

She raised an eyebrow. “What, how you've sort of been obsessed with her for nine years and just now you've finally gotten the courage to act on it?”

“No, no, don't be so mean. I just told her that I really like her, and I really think that giving me one chance couldn't hurt.”

“And what did she say?” Erica seemed to be getting more and more unimpressed.

Stiles paused a minutes, lightly biting his lower lip as he decided how to answer. “Well, she didn't say much. She looked at me, though!” He did his best impression of her by pretending to flip hair over his shoulder and making his voice go up an octave or two. “That's where you're wrong, Stiles. Dating you could certainly hurt my image.” His voice lowered back to it's normal tone. “And then she left. Isn't she great?” Sarcasm was his best defense against how much her words actually did hurt.

“Hm.” Erica's lips were twisted in contemplation as she considered something. Stiles watched her, waiting for whatever it was she was thinking about saying, until she grabbed his hand and started off away from the dance floor. “Let's get out of here,” she said without looking at him. “I have something I think you should see.”

Stiles didn't complain, just grabbed their coats from the coat room and followed her out to his jeep. “Give me your keys,” she demanded gently. She knew how much his jeep meant to him, so it was no surprise that he didn't comply immediately. “Come on, Styles. It won't be a surprise if you know where we're going.” He still hesitated, but eventually tossed her his keys and climbed into the passenger seat.

It didn't take very long to get where they were going, but Stiles definitely knew these roads, even in the dark. About half an hour into their drive, Erica pulled over to the side of the road, turning off the headlights and killing the engine. “We'll have to go by foot the rest of the way,” she said, unlocking her seatbelt and stepping out of the jeep.

“Where exactly are we going?” Stiles asked, half-curious and half-wary. Erica wasn't exactly known for her golden-star behavior, and Stiles knew that. It was part of why they were best friends, but tonight was not the best night to meet his dad while on duty. She pulled open the passenger door and he took off his seatbelt, hitting his head on the roof of his jeep while he stumbled out. “So? What's up?” He tried again, following Erica into the thick of trees.

“It wouldn't be a surprise if I told you, now, would it?” She answered, using the light of her cellphone to guide her. Stiles huffed, following her by the light of his own cellphone, curiosity winning over proper judgement as always.

It didn't take too long to get where they were going; twenty minutes, tops. It was a small clearing of trees, away from the city lights, and just off the path. Erica stepped out onto the grass, no longer needing her cellphone to guide her as the moon was full. It only took one look of her smile to have Stiles following in suit. He shoved the device in his pocket and walked toward her, surprised by how soft the ground was for November.

When he was within reach, Erica took hold of his hand, lacing her fingers through his. “Look up,” she whispered in his ear, turning her eyes to the sky. Instead, he looked first to their linked hands, and then to her face, pausing to admire the wonder and awe that lit it up. And then he turned his gaze to the sky, and it felt like the breath had been stolen from his lungs. Thousands of millions of little white and yellow dots littered the navy blue blanket of the sky. “Wow,” he heard himself say.

“Mm-hm,” she hummed in agreement, not taking her eyes off of the natural artwork above her. “It's beautiful, isn't it? It kind of make you feel small, huh? Like your problems now are insignificant in the grand scheme of things, and that's comforting. It feels like the world doesn't rest on your shoulders, right?”

All he could do was no in agreement, and for what seemed like an eternity, they just stood there in silence, two figures with faces turned towards the sky and linked by the hand. It was perfect, and Stiles was extremely grateful to have someone like Erica there for him.

At least, until the hairs on the back of his neck started to rise. Something wasn't right here. And then he heard a stick snap somewhere within the trees. “Did you hear that?” Stiles breathed, watching Erica for an answer. She nodded, the awe and wonder replaced by confusion and growing fear. He swallowed, attempting to sooth his drying throat. It didn't work. “Let's get out of here.” She nodded again.

They both turned and walked in the direction they came, and Stiles was certain that the snapping came from somewhere else. But then he saw red eyes surrounded by black fur in the shadows of the forest. He froze, staring straight at those eyes. He couldn't move. He could feel the scream building in the back of his throat, and he could feel the need to release it, but Erica beat him to it. The shrill pitch of her terrified scream rang in his ears, and shocked him out of his freeze.

Stiles struggled to maneuver himself in a different direction, but didn't detach himself from Erica's grip as they ran in the opposite direction. He could hear the heavy footfalls of an animal behind him, and forced himself to continue breathing, to continue running, no matter how erratically his heart beat or how much his legs and lungs started to burn. Erica's hushed, panicked whispers of “oh my god, oh my god,” kept him aware that she was next to him, running with him, and he needed to make sure she was safe just as much, if not more, as he needed to ensure his own safety.

He felt every muscle in his body tense as his ankle caught on something and he slammed onto the ground. Distantly, even though she was right next to him, she could hear Erica scream his name. It took him less than a second to gather enough air to shout at her to leave, but he still had trouble filling his lungs. “GO!” He screamed when he finally could, struggling to free his foot, with no such luck. He could see the tears streaming down Erica's face, and he could hear the nearing footfalls of the animal following them. “GO!” He repeated, flailing with his arms to make her understand.

She weakly refused, trying to help him free himself but she was shaking too much, crying too much. “No, no, no,” she kept repeating, over and over again. He swatted her hands off of him, trying to make her understand, “RUN, ERICA,” he screamed at her, the panic filling his voice to a point he should have been ashamed of, but she got the point. She stood, and she ran.

And then Stiles was met with the glowing red eyes of the most vicious thing he had ever seen.


	2. Puzzle Piece

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was not where Derek belonged; he could feel it all the way to the marrow in his bones. His puzzle piece did not belong in New York – it came from an entirely different box.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter onward takes place six months after the prologue, just a heads up.

“ _Derek, listen to me!” Someone was shouting at him, screaming at him, shaking him violently by his shoulders. “If you want to become an Alpha, you have to do this. This is the only way! You will never be a leader if you can't do this!” Yet Derek found himself still frozen, staring at familiar eyes. Familiar blue, crazed eyes. Eyes that were desperately searching him for something he did not possess._  

“ _No,” he choked out, his eyes blurred by terrified tears. “Stop! Stop it! I can't!” The choked out sobs were steadily growing into desperate screams. “STOP IT! I CAN'T DO IT! PLEASE!” He fought against the hands gripping his small shoulders, struggling with all his might. He thrashed and screamed and cried; anything to get away from those eyes, from those hands._

 _The hands only gripped tighter. “Derek, listen to me!” The ferocity in the voice froze Derek again, leaving him to stare once more into those blue eyes. “Listen to me, okay? This is the only way you will ever be able to become an Alpha. That's what you want, isn't it?” Hesitantly, Derek nodded. “In order to become an Alpha when you're older, you have to be able to kill one. We have to start you off small, do you understand? We have to work you up to that point so you won't die in battle, okay?” Derek nodded again, tears still stinging at the corners of his eyes._  

 _The blue eyes moved out of the way, and Derek's gaze fell on the Omega convulsing on the ground before him. Tentatively, Derek took a step forward, claws elongating. He had to do this. He had to. He would never be an alpha if he couldn't do this one thing. If he couldn't take an Omega that was already down, how was he supposed to ever defeat an Alpha? A shaky breath filled his lungs, and then Derek made a mistake._  

 _He looked into the Omega's eyes. Derek looked into his eyes, and in the he saw himself. Small, shaking, and terrified. He could see his reflection in the tears that the Omega was crying. Derek could see all of his pain, all of his fear, everything. It was overwhelming. He wanted to collapse to his knees and apologize. To bandage the Omega's wounds and apologize again. He wanted to ease the pain; he couldn't kill him. He couldn't do it._  

 _He couldn't be an Alpha._  

 _And suddenly Derek was running, as fast as his legs could carry him. His breathing was controlled, but his heart was jumping in his chest, threatening to break free of his ribcage. He could smell someone behind him, someone chasing him. He could hear the footfalls._  

“ _DEREK!” He heard the voice scream from behind him. The eyes were chasing him. “DEREK, COME BACK!” The voice was more angry, more manic than ever, and that terrified Derek. He made his legs move faster. He had to get away. He had to. He couldn't do it; he couldn't become an Alpha like he wanted. He had to get away from the eyes. He couldn't kill. He wouldn't kill. Even if it made him an Alpha._  

 _The stinging in his eyes made it hard to see, made it hard to maneuver. His breathing was starting to become erratic, like his heartbeat, filling his lungs in choked gasps and leaving in forced breaths. This wasn't what he wanted._  

“ _DEREK!” Anger. The voice was angry. Closer. The voice was closer, closing in, he wasn't fast enough. He couldn't get away._  

 _His breath caught in his throat; a surprised choking sound as a force pulled him back from the collar of his shirt. His back hit the ground and the air left his lungs all at once. The eyes were staring straight down at him, and Derek couldn't get the air to return to his lungs. He gasped like a fish out of water; no such luck._  

He gasped like a fish out of water, filling his lungs in deep gasps of air, eyes searching the small space that surrounded him for... something. He couldn't remember what it was he was looking for, but whatever it had been wasn't there, and that made Derek breathe a sigh of relief. He tossed the covers off of him and dragged his feet across the stained motel carpet to the small bathroom. Seriously, it was tiny. It was so small that it could barely fit the shower and toilet (not even comfortably!). The sink and mirror were just outside the door. 

Derek struggled to squeeze passed the door into the cramped space, but once he was actually in the bathroom, he started to feel claustrophobic. He wasn't meant to be in such a tiny space; the wolf part of him began to grow exceedingly anxious. So he quickly took care of his business and squeezed back out, deciding that he would _not_ be going back in there. 

As he passed by the mirror, he paused to look at his own reflection. In all honesty, he looked like complete shit. He looked like he hadn't slept or eaten a proper meal in days. Well, not much “looked like” about it, that was the truth. The money from his last paycheck (after getting fired and then the next day evicted) had only done him enough good to rent him a shitty motel room, barely half a tank of gas, and put a few cup of noodles and convenience store sandwiches in his stomach. It wasn't enough to fuel his system. Not nearly. 

A tired sigh slipped passed his lips as he ran a hand down his face, doing his best to ignore the complaints his stomach insisted on vocalizing. He was so sick, so _tired_ of this... lifestyle! He could count on his fingers and toes the number of times he had been put in this position since he graduated high school six years ago. It happened so often that the owner of the motel knew him personally, and gave him a discount on his room out of pity. As much as Derek despised being pitied, he hated paying for a stained motel room - that reeked of prostitutes, alcohol, and who knows what else - more. So he grinned and took the discount with a “thank you” he had to hiss through his teeth. 

This was _not_ where Derek belonged; he could feel it all the way to the marrow in his bones. His puzzle piece did not belong in New York – it came from an entirely different box. He _knew_ that. Yet, he downright refused to go back to where he knew he would feel at home. Because Beacon Hills wasn't home. It stopped being home the moment he stepped foot outside the town limits eleven years ago. 

Derek turned his head away from the mirror; he couldn't stand to look at himself any longer. Worn, torn, and broken. That's what he was. That's what he felt. He dragged his feet back to the bed and collapsed onto the squeaking springs, staring up at the ceiling since there wasn't much else to look at. It was _boring_ , he concluded. All of it. The stained plaster above him (he sometimes honestly wondered how a stain could even get up there) was so plain. The chipping paint on the walls around him was bland. The every day grind of getting up and grabbing the newspaper just to sit on the bed all day with his highlighter circling job offers and making phone calls to set up interviews was stale. 

This was not where Derek belonged. New York was wrong for him; so wrong. He needed a place with trees, a place where you couldn't smell the pollution in the air just by opening a window, a place where people weren't just nameless faces you passed on the street. He wasn't wired to be alone; he was a werewolf! Derek was an _Alpha_! He couldn't stand the isolation the city gave. Wolves were social creatures; they thrived in numbers. Derek needed numbers. 

Derek needed a pack. 

And he wasn't going to find one in New York. Not in some shit motel. Not in some dingy diner where the ones who threw their lives away came to wallow in self pity and pretend like they wanted to find themselves again. He definitely was not going to find a pack in a city where the girls wore heels that looked absolutely _impossible_ to walk in, and men wore suits on the hottest of days. Not where everyone had a cellphone attached to their ear and there was an unspoken agreement face-to-face communication was a definite _no-no._  

He was not going to find a pack in New York. 

Derek, as an Alpha, needed a pack where connections could be establish. Where not everyone was abrasively independent. Where there were clear lines between Alpha, Beta, and Omega. He needed a place where family was important, because pack was family. Every werewolf knew that instinctively. He needed a good, strong pack, and he was not going to find one in New York. 

But as much as he hated to admit it, he did know where he _could_ find a good, strong pack. 

His decision was made. Derek moved before he could change his mind: pulled on his coat, grabbed his bags, and left the room in favor of the front desk. “I'm checking out, Joel,” he rushed, tapping his finger on the glass to grab the older man's attention. 

The man started, his head jumping from its resting place atop his arms. He fumbled to straighten his glasses so he could see Derek clearly, a smile lighting up his face when he succeeded. “Found a job so soon? That must be a record, for you, Derek! It's only been, what, ten days?” 

Derek shook his head impatiently. “No, no, I haven't found a job. I'm getting out of here, Joel. I'm leaving New York -” 

Joel interrupted him, shock overwhelming his expression and words. “What're you, crazy? You can't leave New York! No one leaves New York, Derek. This is the place people dream about, y'know?” 

“Yeah, well they usually leave the sewers and trashy motels out of the movies, don't they?” 

“Hey, it ain't perfect, but it's home. You know it is! I bet you can feel it in your bones, can't you Derek?” 

Derek raised an eyebrow. That was the exact opposite of what he was feeling. 

Joel frowned. “You're serious about this, aren't you?” Derek nodded solemnly, and Joel leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his short salt-and-pepper hair. He sighed, shaking his head and giving Derek a defeated look. “Alright, alright. Leave, if you have to. I ain't stopping you.” He took the room key from Derek's hand and hung it back up on the wall among the other vacant rooms. 

“Thanks, Joel,” Derek added. Despite only being the guy that rented a room out to Derek when he didn't have a home, Joel was the closest thing to a friend Derek had. He wasn't much, but he made do. “I'll see you around.” Which was a lie. If things worked out okay for him, hopefully Derek would never see a brick of this shabby shit hole ever again. And that sort of made him feel bittersweet about it. As much as he hated the place, he'd grown to rely on it. 

“We both know that's a lie, you asshole,” Joel responded with a laugh. There was a pause between them, and Joel suddenly grew very solemn. “Hey, Derek. If you ever happen to be around again, don't be a stranger. I'll always have room for you here, buddy.” 

Derek didn't say anything, he just nodded. And then he turned towards the door and planted a hand firmly on the handle, meaning to push it open, but he hesitated. He looked back at Joel, who waved, and then he looked back outside. This would be the last time he would walk out this door. He would make sure of it. 

The bell chimed as he pushed open the door and stepped over the threshold, walking with purpose out to the sidewalk. New York had never been a good for him; he was a puzzle piece that just didn't fit. He came from an entirely different box. Derek Hale's puzzle box was in Beacon Hills, California.


	3. Alpha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You were bitten.” It was a statement, not a question. “By an Alpha, no less. Peter Hale?” Stiles flinched at the name. “I thought as much. Yet... you didn't turn. Nothing happened to you. A very curious case.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait guys, but here it is! Chapter three of Wicked Dogs!

 “Hush, hush,” Stiles comforted, his hands cradling his friend's head, fingers digging into the blonde curls. “It'll be okay, it'll be okay. Hush. I know it hurts, baby, I know. Look at me. _Look at me_ , _Isaac_. I know it hurts, but the pain will be over soon. Hush.” He smoothed some of the curls out of Isaac's face. “Dr. Deaton's gonna take good care of you, baby. Just stay with me, okay?” Isaac nodded weakly. The bullet had gotten really deep in his abdomen, and they couldn't let him heal around it.

 Isaac's screams of pain tortured Stiles. “Shh, hush. I know, I know. It'll be okay, Isaac.” Stiles pressed his forehead to Isaac's, the blond's sweat sticking to him. Isaac held his gaze, despite the tears the welled up continuously. “Stay with me, baby. It'll be over soon. You have to be strong. Stay strong for me, okay Isaac?” Again, Isaac nodded weakly. 

Stiles shot a look at Deaton, who was operating on Isaac's abdomen. “Don't you have anesthetics?” His voice was full of rage, pain, and fear. He couldn't stand the thought of one of his babies being in pain. Especially since it was now a reality. 

Alan Deaton looked up from his work for half a second to shoot Stiles a look that all but screamed, 'shut-up-I'm-doing-the-best-I-can'. “It's too late for that, Stiles. We don't have time. He'll just have to suffer through it. If he would _stop healing around it_ , we'd be done by now. Just keep him still, okay?” Isaac screamed again, and Stiles winced. He hated doing this to Isaac. It made him want to claw his own heart out and throw it in the food disposal down the drain. So he nodded to Deaton and turned back to Isaac. 

“Take deep breaths, baby. It'll help. Inhale-” They both breathed in deeply through their nose, though it seemed a little difficult for Isaac, “And exhale-” They both let out the breath passed their lips, though Isaac was hissing it through his teeth. “Focus, Isaac. _Look at me, Isaac_. You can get through this. You are strong. Don't worry, baby. Dr. Deaton's gonna fix you up good as new.” 

“One more fragment and then we'll be done,” Deaton cut in. Stiles could hear the sound of something metal being dropped into a metal bowl – a bullet fragment. 

“You hear that, baby? We're almost done. You're doing great, Isaac. Just a little further. You'll be okay, baby. You'll be okay. We'll get this last piece out, and you'll heal up, and be good as new. And then, when you're ready, we'll go get ice cream. How does that sound? Does that sound good?” Stiles could tell that Isaac was barely listening. His teeth were clenched so tightly, Stiles was afraid he might shatter them. His eyes were screwed shut, and his hands were balled into white-knuckled fists. “Isaac, baby, are you listening?” Stiles said softly, taking the fists into his hands and running his thumbs along the knuckles. “We'll go get ice cream once you're better. Okay? Please answer me baby, can you hear me?” 

Isaac didn't respond, and that drew Stiles to worry at his lower lip. “... Isaac? Isaac! C'mon, baby,” Stiles murmured, his brow furrowed as fear became more potent. “C'mon, Isaac, stay with me. You'll be okay, you just have to stay awake. Can you do that for me? Please stay awake, Isaac.” Stiles continued to massage the werewolf's knuckles, his eyes trained on the other's eyelids. Isaac whined and grunted in defiance to Deaton's hands roaming his insides. Stiles could see that the wounded teen was weakening, fading. 

Stiles carefully released Isaac's hands, in favor of cupping his face. “Open your eyes, Isaac. Can you do that for me? Open your eyes, baby, please. Look at me, Isaac. You need to stay awake. Please do this for me.” Sobs quaked Isaac's body, and Stiles was forced to press his hands against Isaac's chest, trying to keep him steady. But he never moved his gaze from the blond's eyelids. “C'mon, Isaac, stay with me. I need you to open your eyes, baby. _Please_ open your eyes. Let me know you can hear me, honey.” Stiles could hear his voice start to quiver. It meant bad things if Isaac wouldn't respond. Stiles released a shaky breath, pressing his forehead to Isaac's, his thumbs massaging the werewolf's cheekbones. Isaac's eyes were still shut tightly, whimpers and groans and sobs escaping through his grinding teeth. 

“Done,” Deaton cut in, the clack of the last fragment being dropped into the metal bowl resounding after his voice. 

Stiles could feel the relieved smile that tugged at the corners of his lips. “You hear that, baby? We're all done. You made it through, Isaac.” The werewolf still wasn't opening his eyes. Stiles could see the boy relax, though. His shoulders were no longer tense, and his fists were open. Shaky breaths came and left through his lips, but his eyes didn't open. “Can you hear me, honey?” Stiles asked quietly, studying his face. 

“He'll be fine, Stiles. He probably just passed out from the pain,” Deaton interjected, placing a hand on Stiles' shoulder. 

He twisted around so quickly, that he wasted a second being afraid that he might break something, but the thought left as soon as it entered his brain, replaced entirely by white hot emotion. “That isn't okay! Werewolves don't heal while they're _unconscious_! He'll bleed out or something! _Do something_!” Stiles began frantically looking for something to stop the bleeding with, heeding his own advice. He needed to do something to keep his pup alive. “Oh god,” he chanted to himself, searching so hysterically that he didn't actually absorb any information about his surroundings. He picked things up and put things down only to pick them up again to actually _look._  

“Calm down, Stiles,” Deaton commanded gently, placing a hand on the young man's arm. “Isaac will be fine. If you're really that worried, I can wrap it up. Would that make you feel better?” Stiles hesitated a moment before nodding his affirmation. Deaton sighed, fishing out the gauze and medical tape. “You're a good Alpha, Stiles. You deeply care about your pack,” The veterinarian stated conversationally while he patched up the wound. 

Stiles sighed in response. “I'm not an Alpha. I'm not even a werewolf! I'm just... den mother,” Stiles said dismissively, waving his hand in a matching manner. 

“You're right,” Deaton agreed, “You aren't a werwolf. But they listen to you; respect you like they would an Alpha. You support them. Guide them. Having an authority figure gives them strength.” Deaton gave Stiles a look that said, _I-know-your-secret_ as he finished up taping the gauze to Isaac's wound. Stiles furrowed his brow, catching Deaton's expression. “You were bitten.” It was a statement, not a question. “By an Alpha, no less. Peter Hale?” Stiles flinched at the name. “I thought as much. Yet... you didn't turn. Nothing happened to you. A very curious case.” 

Worrying at his lower lip, Stiles shoved his hands in his pockets and looked to the floor. The memory of that night was still branded into his brain. “Well...” He started hesitantly, not taking his gaze away from the floor beneath his feet. Sometimes he could still feel Peter's claws and teeth digging into him, tearing his flesh. The pain. White hot and all-consuming. He remembers being able to think of nothing else, if he could think at all. He remembers that there are approximately five liters of blood in the human body, and he remembers thinking that he could feel all of it flowing out of his punctured veins. He remembers what was left of it in his body – what he though soon to be corpse – pounding in his ears, over the sound of his struggled breathing and the ripping of flesh and the growling of the wolf. Still, all of it comes back to the pain. 

“Well...?” Deaton encouraged, giving Stiles his whole attention. The young man blinked, realizing that no – he was not back in the forest, and taking a breath of relief. He cleared his throat and stuffed his hands in his pockets, glancing up at the veterinarian but unable to keep eye contact. 

“U-um... Nothing. Nothing, doc,” Stiles chocked out, refusing to even look at Deaton. He didn't want to think about it. Not now, not ever. So he cleared his throat and blinked himself back into focus, crossing his arms over his chest. “I'm gonna... Um... go talk to the others,” he said quietly, keeping his head down as he beelined it for the door. “Tell them that Isaac's okay.” He didn't hear a response as he stepped through the door, but he wasn't exactly looking for one. 

** 

The whole pack was stuffed into the waiting room when Stiles stepped out of the operating room, and didn't hesitate to start firing questions at him the second they saw his face. “Calm down, everyone. Isaac's gonna be okay. Dr. Deaton got the bullet out and he should heal fine once he wakes up.” 

“Can we see him?” One of the voices asked, and Stiles looked towards the source – Scott. The werewolf was Stiles' age – eighteen, but had definitely been in the werewolf business a lot longer than most of the pack. He could be considered Stiles' beta, and treated Isaac like a little brother. The two were closer than peas in a pod, as far as Stiles could tell. 

“I'm sorry, but now's not the time to be storming his sick bed. Isaac's sleeping right now, but I'll call all of you when he wakes up,” He patted Scott's shoulder sympathetically and looked up to the clock. “Speaking of, it's nearly four-thirty a.m. You should all be getting home, getting some sleep. It's been a rough day; you need it.” Immediately the group started up in weak protesting, as expected.

Stiles was tired. Exhausted, really. He didn't have the energy to deal with this. So he took a deep breath and closed his eyes a moment, trying to stay cool and collected even though the only thing he wanted to do was snap at his pack to get a move on and then go collapse somewhere. “Guys, I can't deal with this right now,” he said slowly. “I know you're all worried about Isaac – I am, too – but there's nothing we can do right now. The best option is to just let him sleep. We'll come see him in the morning, when he's strong enough to see us.” 

More protesting. “Why can't we stay here?” and “I'm not tired, really,” and “but Stiles, Isaac needs us!” and many other things that he couldn't quite understand because everyone was talking over each other. Their objections steadily grew in volume until they were shouting, trying to be heard over one another like small children. 

“Enough!” Stiles called out, immediately silencing the pack. A moment of silence followed, where the werewolves trained their eyes on him again, listening intently. “Look, the only thing Isaac needs right now is sleep, and all of you crammed in here like sardines and fighting like children over a sandbox toy is not going to let him have that. So _please_ , I need you all to go. Go home to your families, and be grateful that you have that opportunity. Go home and eat a nice meal, take a rest, gather up your energy; this is far from over. Those assholes haven't seen the last of us, but I need you all to be strong. This is important, guys. We can't just sit around with our tails between our legs because we took a risk and suffered the consequences. We _knew_ that this might happen to one of us – maybe even to all of us.” Stiles paused, sweeping his gaze over his pack. “Be thankful that this was the only damage we endured; it could have been a lot worse. Be thankful that we didn't have to bury anyone tonight. Now please, go home. Rest. I'll call you when he wakes up. Now _go_.”

 One by one, the werewolves hesitantly stood without a word and filed out of the clinic. They were hesitant, Stiles could tell, but they left all the same. Scott was the first, yet the most reluctant. Stiles could tell that he really didn't want to leave – it almost looked painful – but eventually the bell above the entrance chimed as a sign of his departure. Boyd was next, seeming very dispassionate about the situation. His sturdy frame towered over Stiles as he stalked out, pausing for half a second before he pushed open the main door and left as well. 

Stiles turned toward his last remaining wolf, feeling his front of resolute leadership crumble from underneath him. The strength in his legs vanished and his knees buckled, landing his butt in a metallic folding chair. A sigh passed his lips and he dragged a hand down his face, closing his eyes and resting his head back against the wall. “Aren't you going to leave, too?” Stiles eventually asked, opening one eye to peek at his companion. 

“I will,” she said, carefully taking a seat behind him, “After you're done talking.” A silence fell between them, and Stiles rested his elbows on his knees, hands cradling his head as his eyes stared at the tiles beneath his sneakers. 

“About what?” He replied, his gaze flicking briefly to the shiny black combat boots that rested not to far from his beat up black converse. 

A sigh. “Isaac,” she offered. “Deaton,” she added. “The pack as whole,” another to the list. “The hunters.” A brief pause before the last item on her list of topics. “Peter Hale.” That caught his attention. 

“No,” he spat out, straightening his back and looking his companion dead in the eyes, “We are _not_ talking about that. There's no need, okay? It's taken care of. Dealt with. For six months now. Peter will not be bothering us again, I made sure of it.”

 “Yeah, but that's not what I mean, Stiles-” She tried to reason, placing a hand gently on his arm. 

“ _No_ ,” he asserted, jerking his arm out of her grip. “We don't need to talk about it, alright? It's done. It's _over_. There's nothing left to discuss.” He turned away from her, looking towards the far wall. He didn't want to deal with this right now. He was exhausted, hungry, and stressed. The only thing he really needed right now was a cheap drive through burger and a nap. Not this shit.

 “What about the fact that you didn't turn?” She shot at him, obviously getting annoyed and fed up with his uncooperativeness. Stiles froze, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles were white as untainted snow. “That was an _Alpha_ , Stiles! Peter was an _Alpha_! You know what they can do! You turn or die, that's the rule. You're the only exception! _I_ turned, why didn't you? We were attacked at the same time, Stiles, so what happened?” 

He released a shaky breath and relaxed his fists, forcing himself to calm down. It wouldn't do any good to get angry, he had to address it sooner or later. “I... I don't know, okay? Can we _please_ not talk about this right now?” Today just wasn't “sooner” or “later”. 

“But, Stiles-” she started, almost pleadingly. 

He raised a hand, interrupting her mid-sentence. “Not. Now. Erica. _Go_.” They locked gazes, staring each other down. Erica tightened her jaw, fighting the instinct to obey. Stiles needed to hear her, and she would make him listen one way or another. 

“We need to talk about this sooner or later,” she hissed between her teeth. 

“Then we can talk about it later,” he shot back. “Or never. That works for me, too.” He stood abruptly, ignoring the glare she shot at his back and walked briskly to the front door. His hand hovered briefly over the handle, and he let out a deep sigh. “Please, Erica. We've both got a lot going on right now. We can talk about this over coffee or something some other day, I promise. Just... not now. Go home.” She didn't respond, and he left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know things are kind of slow right now, but I promise that things will start picking up again next chapter! Yay, action!


End file.
